


No Appreciation For The Classics

by dogtit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, sombra is top tier gf tho, widowmaker is an ok gf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: “No,” Widowmaker growled, “No, no, no, if this is a fetish, Sombra I am breaking up with you right now–”Or, being Widowmaker is suffering, just not in the way you'd expect.





	No Appreciation For The Classics

Widowmaker opened the door to her on-base quarters, took one look at what waited inside, turned around, and left. Through the closed door, she heard a muffled, “ _Oh come on!_ ” and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose.

 _Dear Lord,_  she prayed,  _give me patience and not strength, because if you give me strength I am going to snap her horrible little neck._

She let Sombra stew for a good five minutes more before she reopened the door. Somehow, Sombra sitting upright in her bed rather than reclined in what was meant to be a titillating manner was marginally better. Maybe because it implied that Sombra didn’t want to immediately have sex.

Which was great, because there was no way on God’s green earth that Widowmaker was going to have sex while her partner was trussed up in harlequin attire. Instead of the colorscheme chosen for the masquerade ball, Sombra had replaced the white with red, and the cap with a strange hairstyle. Her mohawk had been pulled into pigtails and her hair had been bleached platinum, the tips of her hair dyed black and red as well.

“Literally, what the fuck,” Widowmaker said. “Take it off.”

“What!” Sombra pouted.

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.” Widowmaker shut her door, set her rifle aside, and went into the bathroom. She filled a paper cup with water and took two Tylenol for the headache that was starting to claw its way into birth against her temples, and when she came back she aimed the empty cup at Sombra like a threat. “I will not have sex with you in any manner of costume,  _especially not that one_. No, I don’t care what  _lacy unmentionables_  you have under the,” she gagged, “ _frills_ , it’s not happening, get out.”

“Uhhh wow,” Sombra whistled, “firstly I wasn’t offering sex, but like hell are  _you_ getting any after being a rude bitch. Secondly, I’m collecting on a debt you owe. Remember that favor I pulled in Guatemala?”

Widowmaker did. “Yes,” she hissed through her teeth.

“This is it.” Sombra snapped her fingers, and from a hidden translocater by the closet a capsule was warped into being. The metal shields slid away with a hiss, revealing a skimpy green costume carefully perched upon a hanger, along with a wig and an enormous tub of green bodypaint.  

“No,” Widowmaker growled, “ _No, no, no_ , if this is a  _fetish,_  Sombra I am breaking up with you  _right now_ –”

“Why is it always sex with you! No, my gutter minded arachnid, this isn’t a fetish. It’s ComiCon.”

“Comi–the  _nerd_  convention?”

“If I owned a couch you’d be on it,” Sombra warned. “Like, for weeks. Yes, baby, the  _nerd convention_. Akande and Gabi are already in their costumes.” 

“What–what the hell am  _I_  going as, then?” Widowmaker studied the costume again, lips twisting in disgust. “A  _plant_?”

“A human-plant  _hybrid_ and her name is Pamela, you son of a bitch.” 

“Those–those are just leaves! I am not walking around a convention wearing shrubbery _, Somb–”_

“They’re  _haute couture_ ,” Sombra said. 

Widowmaker was quiet. Then, almost bitter, mumbled, “Give me the leaves.”

–

Two hours later and Widowmaker found herself green, scantily clad, and holding Sombra’s hand tightly to keep from scratching at her wig. It was high quality, but it was different from her extensions and she needed time to adjust. Gabriel had gone as some sort of looming, smokey specter that had drawn a brief and vicious argument from Sombra– “ _Is Spawn even DC anymore?” “Of course he is, he had a crossover issue with Batman, you don’t know shit about the classics_ ,”–and she was pretty sure all Akande had done was wear one of his usual suits and claimed to be a ‘Lex Luthor’.

Widowmaker, through the many awed whispers and compliments thrown her way, had learned she was a ‘Poison Ivy’–what a ridiculous callsign, she privately thought–and Sombra was a unique take on a ‘Harley Quinn’.  _I would have made you Catwoman_ , Sombra had told her,  _but my ship, babe. Also it’s easier to make you green than not-purple_.

Widowmaker believed that she didn’t have to ever do anything to show Sombra she cared ever again. This was enough. This was  _more_ than enough.

A flash of glowing blue light, familiar, caught her attention. She whipped her head around and frowned deeply as she looked through the glass door windows of the train. At first, the head of brown spikes atop gold and crimson armor didn’t make sense.

The height did, though, and when the figure turned their head and caught Widowmaker’s eyes she recognized Tracer’s wide brown eyes bugging out of their sockets.

There was a pretty redhead next to her, holding her hand, dressed in a catsuit as tactical as Widowmaker’s own usual gear. Tracer hit the arm of the redhead, pointed. The red head looked her up and down, waved, and mouthed  _You look very pretty!_

Tracer’s mouth moved. From behind the red head, Mercy–in silvery armor and a long, red cape with a winged helm–leaned into view.  _WHAT THE FUCK_ , Widowmaker lip read clearly.

“So Overwatch is here,” Widowmaker reported. “Also in costume. Not  _their_ costumes, but costumes.”

“Wait, what?!” Sombra jingled as she moved to look. “Oh those  _bitches!_  They’re going as  _Marvel_.”

“Is Jack there? Is he Captain America?” Gabriel snarled. “I’m gonna kick his ass if he is, that prick! He always called dibs and he never did the role any justice!” 

“Tracer’s Iron-Man!” Sombra revealed, even though the words flew over Widowmaker’s head. “I dunno who the ginger babe is but that’s definitely Black Widow.”

“Her complex is showing,” Widowmaker muttered to herself, unheard. 

“I have always wanted to see if Marvel versus DC was a fitting cause to fight for,” Akande practically purred, rubbing his knuckles. “We shall engage them in the costume contests, and we shall return  _victorious_. It will be a fine battle.”

Widowmaker looked to Tracer again.  _Help me_ , she mouthed.


End file.
